


the dreadful martyrdom must run its course

by bhaer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Cholera, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Major Illness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:10:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bhaer/pseuds/bhaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate universe, Combeferre falls ill with cholera the night before Lamarque's funeral. Enjolras must choose between his friendship and his ideals while Courfeyrac has a sudden realization. Combeferre's life hangs in the balance, and all wait to see who will become afflicted next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Icarus

June 4th, 1832

 

Combeferre was nervous. It was a violent, aching anxiety that settled in the pit of his stomach like a ball of lead. He steadied himself by cleaning his prized pistol over and over again but that only exacerbated the constant fear. He knew, though he couldn’t explain how or why, that something _awful_ was happening.

It was almost a relief when Joly barreled into his apartment at noon, cravat untied and waistcoat unbuttoned. Combeferre carefully set his pistol down and waited for the catastrophe to be revealed so he could fix it and allay his nervousness.

“Bousset’s collapsed! I think it might be cholera!” Joly spluttered. Combeferre felt as if he had been slapped and then, slowly, he calmed. Joly was overreacting, as he had done dozens of times before. This wasn’t the catastrophe he had been dreading. This was a case of nerves gone awry.

“Have you examined him?” Combeferre asked, expecting the observed symptoms to be laughably vague. Joly paused to catch his breath against the dresser. He apparently ran over.

“Yes, his pulse is fast and he vomits at an amazing rate. At first it contained food and bile, but now it seems more like rice water than anything. I’ve read my books a dozen times over and I don’t know what else it could be,” Joly said.

Combeferre felt as if he’d been slapped for a second time except the shock didn’t fade. He knew the symptoms of cholera like the back of his hand and he knew that if what Joly said was true, a positive diagnosis was likely. He knew there was no cure for cholera. He knew it was a painful death.

“I’ll get my bag but perhaps you ought to call a…” Combeferre hesitated, “real physician.” 

As expected, Joly looked mildly offended.

“I just haven’t completed my medical training and neither have you. It might be helpful to have a practicing doctor offer their opinion,” Combeferre said, mollifying Joly. Combeferre, who had an internship and therefore much more experience than Joly, did not mention that if it was an advanced stage of cholera, there wasn’t much a doctor, student or anyone could do. It was for his own peace of mind. Combeferre did not want to be solely responsible for his friend’s death.

They half-ran down the street. Combeferre realized, too late, that he had forgotten his hat. It didn’t seem important. His blood rushed in his ears and the panic that previously rested just below the surface, now threatened to consume him. Combeferre remembered, with a slight shock, that anxiety was an early symptom of cholera and thought that he ought to take a draft of calomel. Whatever miasmas Bousset had been lurking around, Combeferre likely had come in contact with too.

When they reached the apartment building, Joly bounded up the stairs three at a time while Combeferre followed slowly, counting his breaths methodically. Joly kept calling down for him to hurry.

Combeferre had seen perhaps hundreds of cases of cholera in his short medical career but nothing prepared him to witness it in his friend. Bousset lay on Joly’s bed, dry skinned and pale, a chamber pot of clear liquid by his head. His eyes were closed in seeming sleep though his legs twitched.

“Spasmodic cholera,” Combeferre whispered. Joly gasped and clutched Combeferre’s hand.

There wasn’t much to do.

Combeferre didn’t have the heart to give Bousset a purgative and make him suffer more. Even bleeding the man was difficult. Joly, usually quite cheerful around blood, looked away. When the room was cleaned and Bousset wrapped in a plethora of blankets, it seemed almost surreal.

“Laudanum would be quite nice now,” Bousset called, his voice dry and hoarse. Joly let out a joyless laugh. Combeferre shook his head; while a dose would ease the pain, it would also quicken the demise. Were it he ill, he would have preferred a quick and painless end but Joly was insistent that there was still hope. 

They waited. Enjolras came by and, voice trembling, demanded Bousset regain his health before Lamarque’s funeral. For the first time, his order was not obeyed. Courfeyrac, Grantaire and Bahorel came with brandy and handfuls of cheerful daisies they had stolen from the front yard of some aristocrat. The petty thievery cheered Bousset immensely, as did the brandy, under Combeferre’s careful supervision. The guests didn’t stay long. It was unbearably awkward. Joly was on the verge of tears and Bousset was half-delirious.

Joly’s mistress appeared at dinnertime with a loaf of bread. She proved a more comforting nurse than Combeferre could ever hope to be and he watched, from a distance, as they said their goodbyes. Bousset’s skin had begun to take on a blue tinge and his fingers wrinkled. He continued to produce buckets and buckets full of clear water.

When the end came, it was quiet. Combeferre perhaps would have preferred to look away except he was hardly aware Bousset had died until Joly asked him to verify the time of death. It was almost peaceful.

Combeferre arranged for the morgue to pick up the body. He left quickly. He felt he was intruding on Joly and Musichetta's grief. 

Enjolras was waiting for him in his apartment. Combeferre sank into his bed. He had done little but sit and watch Bousset all day but he was exhausted. The anxiety had faded to a dull numbness in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he was sad or just sleepy.

“I wish he could come tomorrow,” Enjolras whispered. Combeferre nodded.

“He would have wanted to,” Combeferre agreed. They sat in silence.

“Perhaps we should sleep,” Enjolras said weakly. He was never one to argue for more rest but perhaps he saw how Combeferre’s face had become pale and gaunt. Combeferre saw it in the mirror as he washed his face for bed. He frowned at his reflection.

“I’m taking calomel to be safe. Bousset and I both went to the slums last week to pass out flyers,” Combeferre said. He rifled through his bag.

“Is that wise?” Enjolras asked. He had already changed into his nightshirt and was perched on Combeferre’s bed like an owl.

“The effects will be over before the funeral,” Combeferre said. He surveyed the clear bottle of white liquid nervously. Taking a purgative was not a pleasant experience.

“Do you feel unwell?” Enjolras said, his round face etched with worry.

Combeferre struggled to articulate his gut feeling of anxiety but instead just shook his head.

“I’m concerned Bousset and I came across the same miasmas but I’m sure I’m fine.” Before Combeferre could worry himself out of it, he measured the appropriate dosage and downed it, wincing as the tasteless liquid slid down his throat.

“Do you want me to stay up with you?” Enjolras asked. Combeferre shook his head again.

“Go to sleep. I’ll let you know if I need anything. I’ll probably join you in a few hours.”

Enjolras grumbled but exhausted from planning the next day’s protest, soon fell asleep. Combeferre felt the effects of the calomel quickly. He tried to calm his frenzied nerves by reminding himself that whatever imbalance was in his body, he’d soon right it.

At midnight, Combeferre, sleepy and feeling sicker by the minute, tried to mix brandy and water with shaking hands. It burned his esophagus and came back up a few minutes later.

By two in the morning, Combeferre was prodding Enjolras awake. Enjolras, momentarily lost in his dreams, tried to pull the quilt over his eyes. 

“What?” he moaned, rubbing his eyes.

“I think,” Combeferre said, trying and failing to keep his voice steady, “that I’m suffering from the early stages of cholera.”

Enjolras sat up, all tiredness gone, and examined Combeferre’s face with warm hands.

“You’re pale,” he whispered.

“I think I’ve caught it in time for treatment to work. I’ve bled myself extensively and taken, in turn, measures of brandy and laudanum.” Combeferre tried to adopt the calm voice he used when talking to the families of patients at the Necker. Enjolras nodded.

“Try to rest. I can go get Joly.”

“No!” Combeferre’s own boldness surprised him. Enjolras looked confused.

“Let him mourn. The treatment is simple and I just need someone to administer it, if you don’t mind,” Combeferre said. His voice shook. His panic had overtaken him. He could not remember ever being so scared.

“Of course,” Enjolras said. Combeferre let out a sigh of relief and let himself be dragged into bed. Textbooks were brought out and instructions given. Enjolras composed a long letter to Combeferre’s parents, dictated by Combeferre. Messages were sent to Courfeyrac and Jehan. By sunrise, Combeferre slept knowing he had prepared as best he could. He woke up soon afterwards to vomit a milky, almost clear liquid.


	2. Psychopomp

June 5th, 1832

 

Courfeyrac ran in the bedroom just in time to see Combeferre vomit an exorbitant amount of what appeared to be water. Enjolras held a bowl for him and rubbed his back. The normally neat room was in complete disarray. 

“Jesus Christ!” Courfeyrac swore. Enjolras shot him an icy look and carried the bowl of sick to the dresser. Combeferre collapsed on the bed.

“Good morning,” Combeferre croaked. His skin was white and dotted with sweat while his eyes were bloodshot. His spectacles were deposited on his desk. Seeing him without his characteristic eyewear scared Courfeyrac more than the vomiting.

“ _Is_ it a good morning?” Courfeyrac cried. “How long have you been like this?”

“A few hours,” Combeferre said.

“And are you getting better?” Courfeyrac asked.

“I think so,” Combeferre said with a small smile before closing his eyes. Courfeyrac turned to Enjolras who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Courfeyrac felt his heart drop into his stomach. He had already cried himself silly over Bousset when Enjolras’ message came. Courfeyrac felt like screaming. Instead he laughed.

“This is the most inconvenient day of the year of the year to be ill, Combeferre, my friend,” Courfeyrac said. Eyes still shut Combeferre chuckled lifelessly.

“I’m just cleaning out the bowl,” Enjolras said. He pressed Combeferre’s sweaty hair soothingly and motioned for Courfeyrac to follow him to the small kitchen area. Courfeyrac gently shut the bedroom door behind him before letting out a strangled cry. 

“Don’t let him hear you! I don’t want him to worry!” Enjolras seemed on the verge of tears.

Courfeyrac swallowed his screams.

“Is he going to die?” He half-whispered.

Enjolras seemed to crumple into a chair.

“I don’t know. He’s getting worse but he’s also not as bad as Bousset was. People do survive, you read about it in the paper…” Enjolras trailed off. Courfeyrac thought that even in ’30, when they all faced death, he had never seen their leader look so frightened.

“For every man who survives, how many don’t?” Courfeyrac said. Enjolras ignored him.

“I cannot leave him but I cannot abandon les amis today,” Enjolras said with forced steadiness.

“Oh hang the damn funeral!” Courfeyrac cried. For a second, he thought Enjolras would hit him. He stepped back instinctively but Enjolras instead slumped against the chair.

“I can’t. Maybe you can ‘hang’ it but I can’t."

There was an uneasy silence. Combeferre coughed in the next room.

“I’ll stay. I’m no nurse but it’s better than nothing,” Courfeyrac said quietly. Enjolras choked back a sob.

“He wants me to go. He says he’ll be fine on his own. I think he’s delirious,” Enjolras said. His eyes watered and a few stray tears fell down. Courfeyrac, not for the first time, wanted to break something. He wanted to burn down the building. It was so sickeningly unfair and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“He would want you to go,” Courfeyrac said gently.

“He’s not dead yet!” Enjolras hissed.

“He _wants_ you to go. He’d want that even if he wasn’t delirious. I’ll stay.”

Enjolras seemed ready to retort. He stood up instead and wiped his face.

“Yes.”

Courfeyrac brought in a clean bowl ten minutes later. 

“Hullo Combeferre. How are you?” He said. He was good at miming cheerfulness. Combeferre cracked open an eyelid.

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes, you _are_ feeling better?” Courfeyrac said, panic rising.

“Where is Enjolras?” Combeferre half-yelled.

“He’s arranging some affairs. He’ll be back soon,” Courfeyrac said. He sat on the edge of Combeferre’s bed and tentatively touched his shoulder. It was cold as ice.

Combeferre fell silent and Courfeyrac gently rubbed his shoulders. The skin was taunt over the bone and white. Combeferre always seemed pale but he looked almost corpse-like now. It scared Courfeyrac. He wished, selfishly and desperately, that he were the one ill. He liked being petted and taken care of where Combeferre found the whole experience humiliating. Besides, in a crisis, there was no better doctor than Combeferre and Courfeyrac was sure that he would mess something up. It was unfair that their situations weren’t reversed. Again, Courfeyrac wanted to hit something.

Instead he rubbed Combeferre’s back.

The silence in the apartment soon became oppressive. There was no noise but Combeferre’s soft, uneven breathing and the distant sounds of the crowd outside. Courfeyrac wondered what was happening at the funeral.

He had little to do but speculate, so he let his imagination run wild.

If he had cholera and Combeferre did not, everything would be much better. He would be allowed to lounge in bed, his favorite activity. Combeferre would be able to try out scientific advances he read about and generally feel useful. Of course, Combeferre had not been particularly useful for Bousset but that was an advanced case and besides, Joly was really presiding. No, if Courfeyrac was ill and they caught it right away, Combeferre would have some trick up his sleeve. He would fuss over Courfeyrac’s pulse and smooth down his hair as he felt his temperature.

Courfeyrac liked Combeferre’s hands. They were surprisingly large yet gentle.

Then Combeferre would mix some noxious medicine and Courfeyrac would whine, in his way, and beg not to have to take it. Combeferre would smile in spite of himself and dryly remark that should he wish to die, he need only have said so. That would shut Courfeyrac up but even as he spluttered on the foul-tasting mixture, Combeferre would hold his hand and tell him afterwards that he had done a good job.

Of course the diarrhea and vomiting would be unpleasant. Courfeyrac doubted even Combeferre could soothe that particular part of the disease. But afterwards, as he recovered, Combeferre would stroke his back. Not irregularly and roughly, as Courfeyrac was doing. No, Courfeyrac didn’t have a talent for comfort the way Combeferre did. When Combeferre did it, it would be perfectly calming and Courfeyrac would fall asleep peacefully.

Courfeyrac’s daydreams were broken as Combeferre spluttered and coughed. He grabbed the nearest bucket and held it as a wave of water fell out of Combeferre’s mouth. Courfeyrac didn’t think a person’s stomach contained so much water. He had a sudden, irrational fear that Combeferre would die right there.

Combeferre gasped for air then vomited again. Courfeyrac held the bucket steady and pressed a firm hand on Combeferre’s back.

He could hardly process how _wrong_ the scene was. He ought to be ill. He hung out in odd places. He engaged in risky behaviors. Combeferre was healthy and practical and strong. He didn’t seem to get winter colds.

But it was Combeferre covered in sweat and shaking from the effort of expelling so much fluid.

Courfeyrac put the bucket down and rearranged the blankets. He thought he heard gunfire in the distance but assured himself it was his imagination. 

“I’m thirsty,” Combeferre muttered into his pillow. Courfeyrac nodded. There was a full pitcher of water in the kitchen. He considered pouring a glass then, with a wild smile, ran back inside carrying the pitcher.

“Drink it,” he said. Combeferre laughed, though it sounded more like a muffled gag.

“I’ll be sick.”

“You already are sick. There’s nothing _in_ you.” Courfeyrac struggled to relate the way Combeferre’s fingers wrinkled and his skin seemed dry and stretched. 

“You’re not a doctor,” Combeferre growled. 

“No, but if you’re thirsty you should drink. I think you’re very thirsty, so you ought to drink a lot.”

Combeferre seemed ready to argue but instead was forced to run to the water closet. He returned looking skinnier than he had before.

Courfeyrac held out the pitcher.

Combeferre began to drink.

He drank the entirety over an hour and Courfeyrac ran to the well for more. When he returned, Combeferre was moaning in pain, clutching his abdomen.

“You made me drink,” he wheezed.

“Your books say that cramping is normal. The water had nothing to do with it,” Courfeyrac said sternly. Combeferre didn’t respond, only buried his head in the pillow. Courfeyrac felt a twinge of fear; Combeferre never ignored a chance to prove himself right.

Courfeyrac gently set the pitcher down and sat on the edge of the bed. He touched Combeferre’s side and felt his body recoil.

“Did Enjolras mail the letter to my parents?” Combeferre asked.

“It’s on its way, as fast as possible.”

Combeferre smiled briefly before wincing and curling into himself.

“Ah,” he cried.

Courfeyrac could see the pain in his every movement. He wanted to cry.

Another hour passed. Courfeyrac thought that perhaps the cramping would cease after Combeferre expelled the illness. Instead the pain continued fiercely and it appeared there was no end to the fluid in Combeferre’s body. Courfeyrac became genuinely frightened that within the new few hours, Combeferre would die. He wondered what one did with a corpse. He wondered if Combeferre would want his mother there. He felt inadequate.

“You should drink more,” Courfeyrac said. Combeferre mumbled something incoherent in response.

“I _know_ it hurts but maybe you should drink.” It wasn’t exactly a fine piece of rhetoric but Courfeyrac had begun to feel mad. Nothing he wanted to say came out right.

Combeferre groaned.

“Please Combeferre. It would make me feel better if you drank a little.”

With effort, Combeferre sat up. He seemed to have lost an enormous amount of weight in the past few hours. His cheeks were hollow and pale. He frowned and clutched at his stomach with white knuckles.

Courfeyrac struggled to smile as he slowly lifted the pitcher to Combeferre’s mouth.

Combeferre drank with difficulty; only stopping when a drop of blood fell into the water. Courfeyrac quickly pulled the pitcher away as Combeferre held his hands over his nose, now bleeding profusely. Courfeyrac looked around desperately for a rag before ribbing off his cravat and holding to Combeferre’s face firmly.

The bleeding soon ceased and though shaken, Combeferre agreed to try to drink again. They stop intermittently for Combeferre to run to the water closet or, alternatively, gasp from pain.

Courfeyrac didn’t know why he was obsessed with the pitcher being emptied. It was something for him to do. Some of the water was vomited but some of it wasn’t. Maybe that meant something.

“I would like brandy,” Combeferre whispered. Courfeyrac obeyed and, once out of the bedroom, refilled the pitcher. He couldn’t pretend not to hear shots fired outside but he ignored it. He was sure if he thought of his friends bleeding to death he’d burst. Watching Combeferre vomit to death was bad enough.

“There’s fighting,” Combeferre said hollowly upon Courfeyrac’s return.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac said, hoping that would end the discussion.

“I bet Enjolras is happy,” Combeferre said. His voice was heavy.

“I’m hungry,” Courfeyrac said. It fell out. He didn’t think he could bear to hear Combeferre cry.

“I hope he’s alright,” Combeferre continued.

“Do you think you can hold down food?” Courfeyrac said.

“No.”

Courfeyrac sighed and set the pitcher on the floor. Combeferre was curled into a ball in a corner of the bed, occasionally tightening as a cramp rolled through him.

Courfeyrac sat down and reached for Combeferre’s hand.

“I’m frightened. And an ass.”

“S’kay.”

“I bet Enjolras is doing wonderfully,” Courfeyrac said. Combeferre smiled.

“You can go. You want to,” Combeferre whispered.

Courfeyrac did want to go. He wanted to fight, and _win_ for once. He wanted to do something with his hands.

“I’d rather be here,” Courfeyrac said.

“Thank you.

Combeferre drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Outside, the battle raged.


	3. Hades

June 6th, 1832

 

Courfeyrac woke up covered in Combeferre’s sweat. He had fallen asleep sometime a little after three after ascertaining that were Combeferre to expire, it would not be in the next few hours. 

As soon as he regained consciousness, he listened and was reassured to hear his friend’s labored breathing. Courfeyrac filled with an almost selfish pride. It was uncommon for cholera patients to survive twenty-four hours. Combeferre had lasted a little more than a day. Whatever happened next, no one could say Courfeyrac hadn’t tried his bloody hardest.

The second thing Courfeyrac noticed was the distinctive scent of gunpowder. It lingered, heavy in the air. Courfeyrac pressed his nose to Combeferre’s neck instead. He smelt like sweat and sick and disease but it was oddly more comforting than the smell of loosened bullets.

It was sunrise and Courfeyrac hoped desperately that Enjolras too had survived the night.

He lay nestled next to Combeferre for the next hour, smoothing back his matted hair and holding his hand whenever the disease became particularly painful. Still, even to Courfeyrac’s untrained eye, it was clear Combeferre was slowly improving. His skin seemed more elastic, less taunt over his joints. His lips were flecked with spit where earlier they had been so dry they ran with blood.

At seven, the door to the apartment flung open and Courfeyrac bolted up. He nearly cried when Jehan sauntered in, covered in dirt and dried blood. White gunpowder covered his strawberry hair, giving it a ghostly sheen.

“Have we won?” Courfeyrac asked in a whisper and he settled Jehan in the kitchen with a bowl to wash himself with and a cup of tea. Jehan’s lower lip trembled. Courfeyrac felt his heart drop.

“Grantaire is dead. He ended up on the wrong side of the barricade after the first attack. We heard his execution.”

Was it only two days earlier Courfeyrac had lost spectacularly to Grantaire in billiards? It seemed impossible that in such a short time Grantaire’s toothy smile could be extinguished.

“And the rest?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Bahorel was shot. He died an hour later. Feuilly was hit in the leg with a bayonet. He’s been unconscious all night and Joly is not sure that he will pull though.”

Only last week Courfeyrac had teased Feuilly good-naturedly about his newest mistress and Feuilly had responded by stealing Courfeyrac’s hat. He wondered, absently, where the hat was. It had been Bahorel’s idea to bring brandy when they visited Bousset’s deathbed. It had been Bahorel who comforted Courfeyrac afterwards. 

Courfeyrac steeled himself for the rest.

“Joly is fighting?” He asked.

“Yes, though he’s a little distracted. He was grazed by a bullet in the arm but is otherwise fine.”

“And the rest?”

Jehan took a long sip of tea.

“Enjolras has been shot.”

Courfeyrac wanted to scream. Weren’t Bousset, Grantaire, Bahorel and Feuilly enough? Wasn’t there a limit to how much he was expected to endure?

“He’s alive?”

Jehan nodded but his eyes watered.

“I left the barricade to bring him home because Joly thinks there’s still hope for him. He’s resting with one of Combeferre’s doctor friends at his apartment. He kept asking about Combeferre so I came to see if I could ease his worries. I admit, I’m surprised to see he’s still alive.”

Courfeyrac’s earlier unbridled joy at the fact seemed insignificant. What was cholera when compared to the massacre of the night before?

“You aren’t going back, are you?” Courfeyrac said suddenly. He reached across the table to clasp Jehan’s trembling hands.

“I must. I can’t leave Joly. They’re painfully outmatched, though Marius is there, which is a small comfort.” 

Courfeyrac had been afraid of Jehan would say that. The disappointment echoed dimly in his chest.

“You must say goodbye to Combeferre first,” he said. Jehan nodded and finished his tea in a large gulp. Courfeyrac was unpleasantly reminded of visiting Bousset. He knew, unhappily, he would probably never seen Jehan and Joly again.

They walked quietly in the bedroom where Combeferre lay, awake and breathing heavily.

“Look, Prouvaire is here,” Courfeyrac said. Combeferre turned to face them and a rush of pink came to his pale cheeks. His dry lips struggled to move into something resembling a smile.

“Are they…?” Combeferre said raspily. Courfeyrac was nervous but Jehan apparently knew exactly what to say.

“Everyone’s fine in one way or another. Some of us are still stuck in the mortal coil and the luckier ones are finally free,” Jehan said cheerfully. Combeferre closed his eyes. Perhaps, Courfeyrac thought, if he wasn’t so dehydrated, he might be crying.

“I’m sorry I’m not there.”

Jehan laughed airily in response.

“It’s all very Romantic, isn’t it? We suffer out there and you suffer in here. I shall be sure to write a poem about the irony.”

Courfeyrac wondered if Jehan would ever write a poem again but the thought proved too painful. He pretended to cough into his sleeve to hide his tears.

“Joly sends his love and tells you to remember to keep bleeding yourself. Enjolras won’t stop asking about you and Bahorel wanted you to, ‘kick cholera’s revolting ass,’ to use his colorful phrasing. Grantaire wanted me to get you some particular brandy from his rooms but I didn’t have the time. Still, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?” Jehan said. Courfeyrac thought he could feel his heart break in his chest.

“I’m fine,” Combeferre said.

“I hope so. Bousset’s funeral is in a few days and his very pretty younger sister is coming to Paris for it. You _must_ be better in time to entertain her,” Jehan said. For the first time his voice faltered.

Courfeyrac left to give the two friends some privacy. He couldn’t remember feeling so unhappy. The kitchen was quiet and empty. Was it last Christmas Combeferre had thrown an impromptu dinner party and they had all gotten drunk in this very room, laughing and singing? Feuilly had, very seriously and very tipsily, explained Polish and Italian Christmas traditions. Feuilly was so smart. Now he was perhaps dead and Courfeyrac might never again listen to him excitedly explain some political development.

He collapsed into hot, angry tears.

When Jehan came out, they embraced tenderly. Courfeyrac found, when the time came, he couldn’t let go. His arms stayed stubbornly draped across Jehan’s petite frame. Jehan had to squirm out of his grip.

“Keep him well. He’ll invent a cure for cholera if he survives this,” Jehan said. Courfeyrac nodded. They were both now freely crying.

“You have to stay safe and please keep Joly and Marius out of trouble. I can’t lose any of you,” Courfeyrac sobbed.

“I’ll try. When Enjolras is well enough to be moved, he’ll be brought here. Joly says to keep his bandages clean and make sure he eats. Please go to Bousset’s funeral. One of us has to be there.”

“We’ll both go,” Courfeyrac said. Jehan looked uncertain.

When Jehan finally left, Courfeyrac felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He stared at the closed door in a daze.

Bousset, Grantaire, Bahorel, and maybe Feuilly. Their names echoed in Courfeyrac’s head like a gong.

With effort, he wiped his eyes and wandered into the bedroom. Combeferre had fallen asleep again. Courfeyrac envied him. He was lonely. Normally when he was lonely he found solace in his friends. Now three of them were gone and another three nearly gone. There was no respite.  


	4. Helios

June 9th, 1832

 

When Combeferre lumbered into the kitchen, looking a little like a drowned kitten, and asked if there was anything solid to eat, Courfeyrac was so pleased he kissed the other man squarely on the lips. Combeferre recoiled, muttering about how awful he must smell and blushing, busied himself with finding a clean plate.

They quickly ate through the sparse store of brie Combeferre kept for snacking and Courfeyrac left excitedly to pick up a roasted chicken. Combeferre used the momentary privacy to wash himself, empty out several full chamber pots that had been abandoned in various corners of the apartment and then collapse into bed. The small half hour of exertion tired him immensely.

Still, though it seemed surreal more than anything, he was alive, for better or worse. Sometimes, when Combeferre was feeling particularly ill, he wished he wasn’t. Courfeyrac, who couldn’t keep a secret for anything, told him about Grantaire and Bahorel. It hurt worse than the cramping or the twitching in his legs. It hurt so badly that Combeferre had taken to waking up from naps in a start, gasping and whimpering.

Courfeyrac returned with more food than the two of them could possibly eat and red eyes. It didn’t take much to wheedle the news out of him. Joly had been killed soon after Feuilly succumbed to his injuries. There was no word on Enjolras or Jehan. They had a long cry together on the bed, occasionally pausing to eat a chunk of chicken before collapsing into tears again.

Combeferre felt unimaginably grateful for Courfeyrac. He wasn’t a particularly tactile human being but with Courfeyrac it was almost natural to curl up, to be stroked and coddled and kissed. There was something comforting in Courfeyrac’s easy sadness; the way he freely sobbed and pounded his fist against the table so hard he broke the skin on his knuckles. Combeferre clung to him.

“They killed Gavroche. They killed a fucking child,” Courfeyrac hissed. Another blow. It hit Combeferre squarely in the chest. He let himself crumple against the bedframe before taking a generous sip of wine. 

“There will be vengeance,” Combeferre said because even if revenge was wrong for him on an intellectual level, he wanted nothing better than to grab a member of the National Guard and smack them across the face. It was petty and childish but Combeferre felt too awful to think clearly. He only felt unbearably miserable.

Courfeyrac grabbed Combeferre into an immense hug. Combeferre spluttered.

“I forbid you to die,” Courfeyrac moaned into Combeferre’s shoulder.

“You sound like Enjolras,” Combeferre muttered. It was a mistake. Thinking of Enjolras was unbearable.

“I don’t care. You aren’t allowed to die. You are to get well immediately so we can visit Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said. Combeferre looked down at his own emaciated form. Even standing for short periods of time exhausted him. There were so few cases of survival with cholera; he had little idea how long the rehabilitation would last, if he did survive. It seemed unlikely he’d die now but it had seemed unlikely that four of his closest friends would perish within a week of each other.

“I can be left alone if you want to see him,” Combeferre said.

“He doesn’t want me. He wants you. He’s been asking for you.”

There was no bitterness in Courfeyrac’s voice. He did not take the ravings of a delirious patient as a slight, only wished he could give Enjolras what he wanted. Combeferre loved him for it.

“He isn’t fit to be moved yet?” Combeferre asked. Courfeyrac shook his head and stuffed his mouth with bread so as to avoid giving any further details.

Combeferre fell asleep soon afterwards. He woke up to vomit much of what he had eaten, but it felt good to see bits of half-digested food and bile in the bucket and not water. It felt so much more natural. He could pretend he was sick from over indulging in drink and not because he was suffering from a deadly disease.

Courfeyrac wiped his face afterwards and whispered meaningless words of comfort. It was the kind of useless sentimentality Combeferre disliked but he was too weak to protest. Besides, before slipping back into sleep, Courfeyrac leaned down to plant a sloppy kiss to his temple.

It warmed Combeferre considerably, though he didn’t have the least idea why. He only knew he was tired and sad and something about Courfeyrac’s lips brought him considerable peace of mind.

When he woke up he nibbled on some bread and found, to his great surprise that he held it down with difficulty. Having food sit in his stomach _hurt_ and Combeferre moaned like a child. Courfeyrac nervously stroked his back and talked nonsense about the theatre.

It was nearly time for dinner and Courfeyrac was planning on fetching more food and several newspapers when there was a knock on the door. Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked at each other excitedly. Perhaps it was Enjolras, well enough to recover with his friends. Perhaps it was Jehan, alive and well.

It was almost a disappointment to see Combeferre’s parents and youngest sister. They looked so odd against the backdrop of his shabby apartment, dressed in fine clothes and bringing the overpowering odor of rose-scented perfume inside with them.

Courfeyrac, of course, was charming and nearly caused Marthe to fall in love with him on the spot. Combeferre’s father complained loudly that there were probably dangerous miasmas lurking in the Latin Quarter. Combeferre’s mother, overcome with joy that her only son was not dead as expected, collapsed into hysterical tears.

They had a happy dinner around the bedside. Monsieur and Madame Combeferre graciously declined to mention the recent revolt, only vaguely mentioned the felicitous timing of the illness. Marthe talked loudly about all the new dresses she intended to buy in Paris and Courfeyrac offered to accompany her shopping. Marthe, just recently out of finishing school and in Paris for the first time, blushed furiously. Madame Combeferre fussed over the linens and wouldn’t move her gloved hand from her son’s. Combeferre shrewdly noticed how Courfeyrac watched the scene with envy.

There was almost a row when Monsieur Combeferre demanded both boys move to the family rooms along the Rue des Filles du Calvaire. Courfeyrac was quite ready to be swept up by the adults, for the responsibility to be taken out of his hands. He knew the Combeferres had revolutionary sympathies so there was no reason why Enjolras couldn’t join them. It was better than the narrow, stinking apartment. 

Combeferre argued vehemently against any move at all. Marthe began to cry and Monsieur Combeferre stroked his mustache angrily while his wife loudly remarked that her son was clearly delirious and needed real medical help.

It was finally decided, when Marthe began to have something like a panic attack, that Courfeyrac and Combeferre had two days to put their affairs in order before they moved. It such an emotional way to end an argument that Courfeyrac wondered idly how Combeferre ever grew up among such wild people.

Of course he had his own way of ending fights. Madame Combeferre was to be introduced to Madame de Courfeyrac at the nearest opportunity and invited to her salon. Marthe was to be taken to the theatre and Monsieur Combeferre to play billiards. Combeferre, oddly silent during the negotiations, was to be taken care of.

It was the oddest thing, made odder by Combeferre’s dreamy exclamation as the door slammed behind his family.

“I missed them _so,_ ” he cooed to himself.

“Maybe you _are_ delirious,” Courfeyrac said. The whole experience had been thoroughly challenging for him.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Combeferre said decidedly, taking advantage of their privacy to vomit his dinner cheerfully.

“Why don’t you want to leave?” Courfeyrac asked. It didn’t make sense to start a fight and then proclaim one’s love for the opposing side. He waited while Combeferre finished and wiped his mouth.

“I like it here. I like it just being us. I can’t fault my mother. I’d want the same if I were her. But I don’t want to leave,” Combeferre said.

Courfeyrac didn’t understand but he smiled affectionately anyway.

“I’ll miss this,” Combeferre continued as Courfeyrac climbed into bed with him.

“You steal all the blankets. It’s very trying,” Courfeyrac retorted, pausing in his arranging of the bedcovers to kiss Combeferre’s cheek lightly. He pretended not to notice Combeferre’s faint blush.

“You must send a message to Enjolras first thing in the morning. I’m sure as soon as you’re free of me you’ll spend all your time with Marthe, who’s gotten very pretty, and I will need another invalid to keep me company,” Combeferre murmured sleepily.

“I like Marthe,” Courfeyrac said lightly. “She knows how to get her way. But I don’t suppose she’s half as smart or interesting as you are. We’ll bring Enjolras over and the three of us will keep each other company.”

This pleased Combeferre immensely and he fell asleep with a small smile on his face.


	5. Moros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a content warning for suicidal ideation.

June 10th, 1832

 

Courfeyrac ran up the steps to Enjolras’ apartment two at a time. If he tried, he could imagine he was going to remind Enjolras not to be late to class. The truth lingered in the back of his mind. For starters, Courfeyrac would never have worn such a shabby frock coat to class but he had not been to his own rooms in days and Combeferre’s wardrobe was not only ill fitting, but also painfully bland.

He knocked, expecting to be led in. Instead, a plaintive voice inside asked him to enter. It was recognizable as Enjolras, though Courfeyrac didn’t think he had ever heard Enjolras sound less commanding. Feeling suddenly nervous, he walked in.

The apartment was in complete disarray. There was a bowl of bloody water sitting on the table. Papers and bloody bandages layered the floor like a madman’s carpet and though it was nearly midday, every surface was covered with a beeswax candle, lit and flickering.

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac called. A bout of Enjolras-esque coughing led him to the bedroom. Lying on a mattress stained with blood and bile and ink, was Enjolras.

He didn’t _look_ like Enjolras. The physical features were essentially the same: those were the same high cheekbones and thin eyebrows that curved at the edges. The hair was a same golden yellow, though it had been shorn close to the skull. He simply looked so empty, so weak that Courfeyrac suddenly wondered irrationally if he’d come to the wrong apartment.

“You’re alive,” the figure on the bed croaked. His right arm was heavily bandaged but still spots of red shone through.

“I am and so is Combeferre. I’m bloody happy to see you alive though!” Courfeyrac couldn’t stand and wait for the awkwardness to break. Lifeless or not, it was Enjolras and Enjolras was to be gently embraced. The body in his arms was limp. Courfeyrac released him slowly.

“I’m glad you both survived. That makes four,” Enjolras said raspily. Courfeyrac mentally counted and punched the air triumphantly.

“Jehan is alive? Good God, I knew it!”

Enjolras watched Courfeyrac’s glee with empty eyes.

“His parents took him from the hospital. He was shot, you know,” Enjolras said dully.

“But he’s alive!” Courfeyrac cried. He grabbed Enjolras’ hands in his own. They were as cold as ice.

“And Combeferre is expected to survive?” Enjolras asked.

“He’s recovering, yes. Damned slowly but he beat cholera so I can’t really fault him. His sister’s looking after him now so I can see you.”

“Give Marthe my compliments,” Enjolras said.

“Er, yes. Combeferre’s parents came to Paris because they thought he’d be dead. They’re terribly pleased he’s not, as you can imagine. Anyway, now they’re moving us to their townhouse while he regains his strength and I want you to join us!”

Enjolras did not look quite as thrilled over the big announcement as Courfeyrac expected him to.

“I would not wish to intrude.”

“Nonsense! They adore you; they think you’re a good influence, which is positively ridiculous, but I won’t argue with the people planning to shelter me from the elements. Besides, they’ve written to your father and he agrees it’s for the best. Won’t we have fun?”

“My father was informed?” Enjolras said with sudden emotion. He was angry.

“He actually wrote to them when he heard they were going to Paris. Your name wasn’t among the dead but he was sure you’d have been fighting and asked them to check up on you,” Courfeyrac said carefully. He knew Enjolras held no affection for his father but had no idea the vitriol went so deep. 

“I won’t go. I’ll be fine here.”

Courfeyrac looked around at the general mess and then back at Enjolras’ pale face.

“That’s clearly bullshit, Enjolras. Whatever happened to that friend of Combeferre who was supposed to be looking after you?” Courfeyrac cried. Enjolras shrugged, which, as he was lying on his back, looked more like a twitch of the neck.

“I sent him away. He had more pressing patients.”

“You were shot in the arm!” Courfeyrac cried. He had lost his temper. Losing the vast majority of his close friends was difficult enough and now perhaps the closest of them had a death wish. It was infuriating

“There were others with greater needs. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

Courfeyrac crossed his arms.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I had some bread last night,” Enjolras said. “I don’t have much of an appetite anymore.”

“Neither does Combeferre, which is why he isn’t left to his own devices,” Courfeyrac retorted.

“Combeferre was far sicker than I have ever been.”

“You’re right, and the last thing he deserves now is to lose his dearest friend!”

This seemed to content Enjolras, who shut his eyes as if in sleep.

“I will remain with Combeferre until he is healed,” Enjolras whispered. Courfeyrac didn’t like the implication.

“And afterwards?”

“I will do as I see fit.”

Courfeyrac felt his blood run cold.

“God Enjolras, we’re all upset.” It was useless comfort. Enjolras ignored it.

“I was supposed to die,” he said coolly. Courfeyrac had to restrain himself from grabbing his friend by the shoulders and shaking him.

“You weren’t _supposed to_ anything! You’re alive and it’s very sad that our friends are dead but wasting away won’t bring them back.”

Enjolras smiled sadly. “If only it were that simple.”

Courfeyrac wisely changed the subject to lighter matters, none of which piqued Enjolras’ interest. He’d occasionally comment if Courfeyrac mentioned Combeferre but otherwise lay still. Then Courfeyrac decided to try packing his things and found Enjolras had, before the funeral, given away most of his personal belongings to the poor. There was hardly a spare shirt.

“Why on earth would you do that? I suppose you can share with Combeferre for now but you’ll be tripping over yourself in his trousers,” Courfeyrac warned as he despaired over the state of Enjolras’ wardrobe.

“As I said,” Enjolras whispered to the ceiling, “I was supposed to die.” 


	6. Demeter

June 12th, 1832

 

The journey across town tired Combeferre immensely and he immediately took to bed. The two invalids were given a large room to themselves, connected to Courfeyrac’s smaller chambers by a door. When the house had been bought and Combeferre was only a month old, the larger room served as a nursery for him and his elder sister and the smaller the governess’s quarters. Now it was a sort of miniature hospital.

Enjolras hardly spoke at all except for a mumbled thanks to the patient parents for their hospitality. He ignored their urging to write to his father and followed Combeferre’s limited movements like a shadow.

“You could _try_ to be sociable. They’re only feeding and housing and doctoring you,” Courfeyrac admonished from Combeferre’s bedside. Enjolras had snuggled up in a large armchair and was pointedly refusing to answer.

Combeferre drowsily mumbled something about it being a long day. Courfeyrac pointed out that it wasn’t quite noon. Combeferre replied with a series of sleepy curses before starting to snore loudly. Courfeyrac gently smoothed the bedclothes around him. Enjolras twitched an eyebrow at their sudden increase in affection but otherwise continued to be silent. 

His wounded arm was done up in a cloth sling that was interfering with his ability to cross him arms contemplatively. Instead he leaned back and tucked his chin on the edge of the chair. It was a similar effect.

“I rather assumed I’d be the last one,” Courfeyrac admitted suddenly. Enjolras frowned deeply and considered his answer for nearly a minute before replying.

“I didn’t expect to live. I thought you might. I thought the rest would all make it, to be honest. But I always assumed that whether or not we won, I’d die.”

As if shocked by his confession, Enjolras lowered his eyes to the hideous flowered carpeting, dotted with ink stains left by a young Combeferre struggling to learn his letters.

“I’m very glad I’m not the last one after all,” Courfeyrac said.

“I’m glad you’re not alone.”

It was perhaps a small improvement over their earlier conversations, which mostly consisted of Enjolras falling so deep in his own melancholy that Courfeyrac could hardly communicate with him.

Combeferre gasped in his sleep and Courfeyrac quickly looked his resting body up and down for any signs of distress. Enjolras’ brows knitted together in unspoken worry until Courfeyrac announced it was _only_ a gasp. He hardly knew what else it could have been; only that anxiety now permeated every inch of his brain. Combeferre’s every twitch ignited it.

“Bousset’s funeral was today. I suppose we missed it.” Courfeyrac looked up from his ministrations with a start.

“I didn’t know you wanted to go.”

Enjolras shrugged.

“He would have wanted his friends there. I’m a poor substitute for Joly, but…” He trailed off, looking confused, as if he forgot what he was about to say.

“They’re together now,” Courfeyrac said. He winced at the sound of his own voice. It was such a clichéd phrase. It was what his mother said about his great-grandparents when great grand-mère finally broke her hip.

Enjolras lapsed into moody silence. It was perhaps his trademark now.

When the family physician came, pockets stuffed with bribes not to go to the police, Enjolras submitted to a sullen examination. The wound, the doctor said, was not deep. The bullet pierced a vein but Joly, working with the shriek of gunfire not ten feet away, had saved Enjolras from bleeding to death. It was to be seen if any sensation or movement in the arm was lost, but for the time being, there was nothing to do but replace the bandages and beg Enjolras to rest. He respectfully declined, wished the doctor a good day, and wandered to the nearest bookshelf. As all of the books had belonged to two children under the age of twelve, he did not find much reading material.

Combeferre was looked at and it was ascertained that, as far as anyone could tell, he was not in immediate danger. He had survived. Courfeyrac felt like whooping when he heard the news and even Enjolras, peering over the edge of a young lady’s guide to etiquette, smiled. Combeferre agreed to rest with no objections.

Dinner was an informal affair, as both Combeferre and Enjolras shuffled downstairs in their dressing gowns. Courfeyrac shamelessly flirted with Marthe over the soup, though he wasn’t exactly sure why. She was _very_ pretty with thick lips and large, heavily rimmed brown eyes. She was also quite young and seemed mostly interested in commanding the table’s conversation with talk of her recent trip to England. It wasn’t captivating company by any means.

“And then, Lady Crawley said my English was so good I could pass for a native,” Marthe drawled as the main course was brought in.

“Don’t brag, dear,” Madame Combeferre said gently. Marthe frowned, obviously resisting the urge to argue in front of the handsome young visitors.

There was no mention of the recent revolt. Enjolras’ wounded arm was hardly acknowledged. Courfeyrac had to cut his steak for him.

Monsieur Combeferre tried to engage Enjolras, who had apparently been a friend of the family for some time. Enjolras pushed his food around his plate glumly and issued one-word responses. 

It was unbearably awkward.

Marthe, oblivious or very good at ignoring the tension, chattered on, aided by an immense quantity of red wine. The footman appeared not to notice Madame Combeferre’s pointed looks and continued serving the now very giggly youth.

Finally, in a desperate bid to alleviate the palpable awkwardness, Monsieur Combeferre, groping for a remembered name, asked how their friend was. “You know, what’s his name. The art student. Talented fellow. We were going to commission a portrait of Olivie from him.”

Madame Combeferre audibly kicked him under the table. Marthe paused in describing the Tower of London to Courfeyrac.

“He’s dead,” Enjolras said stiffly. Combeferre opened his mouth to elaborate, and then shut it firmly and became very interested in Marthe’s new dress.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Madame Combeferre said. It may have been a trick of the light but Courfeyrac could have sworn he saw her grey eyes, so like her son’s, water slightly.

There was a pregnant pause.

“The lace is from Venice,” Marthe said in response to Combeferre’s earlier compliment to her attire. She was ignored and, pouting, reached for another gulp of wine.

“Marthe, darling.” Madame Combeferre’s gentle tone was replaced with an almost serpentine hiss. Marthe lowered her glass with more force than necessary. Monsieur Combeferre coughed.

It was a relief when dinner ended.

Combeferre and Enjolras complained of lethargy and left for bed with a kiss each from Madame Combeferre. Courfeyrac, having no such excuse, was forced to listen to Marthe fuss over her needlework while Monsieur Combeferre smoked a foul-smelling cigar. The smoke hurt his eyes and Marthe was getting shriller and shriller as the wine metabolized. He suddenly missed his own sisters terribly.

Madame Combeferre was huddled over a book on botany, occasionally reading some fact about iris pollination aloud. Though none of the party seemed to have any particular interest in the subject, Monsieur Combeferre proudly announced that his wife was a bona fide expert on flowers and even sullen, drunk Marthe would smile and proclaim the factoid simply _fascinating_. It was almost charming. Courfeyrac, used to feigning interest in things that bored him (he was friends with Jehan after all), played along with verve, pleasing Madame Combeferre with his pointed questions about beehives.

Perhaps they weren’t such an unlikeable bunch after all.

At nine, finally succumbing to the effects of four glasses of strong red wine, Marthe went to bed. In spite of their earlier hostility, mother and daughter embraced warmly. The room seemed empty without Marthe’s slightly eccentric presence and Courfeyrac decided he liked her a great deal. In a few years with a little more common sense, she’d be a fine woman indeed.

“The artist,” Madame Combeferre said sharply, drawing Courfeyrac out of his reverie, “he died with the Republicans, didn’t he?”

Courfeyrac realized both parents were staring him down.

“Grantaire was shot by the National Guard.” The words felt heavy on his tongue. Monsieur Combeferre turned to the fireplace, head in his hands and Madame Combeferre looked pensively at her knitting needles.

“How many of your friends survived the barricades?” Madame Combeferre’s gaze was fierce and unblinking behind her silver-rimmed spectacles.

“Enjolras and one more, who’s grievously injured. His parents have taken him to Switzerland to recover.”

Monsieur Combeferre swore into the mantelpiece.

“Is a journey like that wise?” Madame Combeferre hissed. Courfeyrac shrugged his shoulders. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being indirectly blamed for the entire revolt.

“Bloody hell Helaine, they were children,” Monsieur Combeferre growled. Courfeyrac wanted to point out that he was twenty-three and Bahorel, the eldest, had been nearly thirty. He bit his tongue. The conversation was apparently no longer directed at him.

Madame Combeferre crossed herself reverently. “Denis and Alexandre are alive and I thank God for that.”

Courfeyrac, once again, stopped himself from saying what he thought: that God had nothing to do with it; that Enjolras had been saved by Joly’s skilled hands and Combeferre by his own sheer force of will.

“Would you have gone if you didn’t have to stay behind with Denis?” Madame Combeferre resumed knitting with fervor.

“Yes Madame. I would have.” Courfeyrac met her stare and wilted under its intensity.

“Are your parents alive?”

“Yes Madame.”

“Have you written to them recently?”

“No Madame, but they have no reason to suspect I would have been engaged in the fighting.”

Madame Combeferre sighed and pushed up her spectacles with a thin finger, examining her half-made scarf.

“What a blessing for them,” she responded and Courfeyrac wondered if there wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

He begged leave to check on Enjolras and Combeferre and only relaxed when he finally settled into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, the shippy goodness starts next chapter. For any questions or comments, you can message me (anonymously if you like!) at fee-des-lilas.tumblr.com. I also post snippets as I write them and generally enthuse about how much I love Mama Combeferre.


	7. Pothos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shortness! This is sort of an interlude between chapters, but hopefully a fun one.

Courfeyrac awoke in the dead of night.

He was anxious. Combeferre’s parents had begun to sneak into Courfeyrac’s dreams, cruel and accusing. Was it possible they considered him an instigator and their son simply an unfortunate bystander, dragged into a conflict he didn’t fully comprehend? It was almost laughable to imagine but the possibility troubled Courfeyrac immensely. The Combeferre family had clearly known Enjolras for years and they trusted him. Courfeyrac was the odd one out. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to. 

After fumbling with a candle and nearing burning down half of Paris, he tiptoed into Combeferre and Enjolras’ room to search out some form of amusement with which to distract himself. The immense bookshelf had so far only yielded moralistic children’s novels, but there was always a chance he’d find some old pamphlet Combeferre had lost over the years.

A whispered groan echoed from Combeferre’s bed.

“Go back to sleep, I’ll be out in a minute,” Courfeyrac whispered to the shadowy mass splayed out on the mattress.

“Can’t you sleep?”

“No, can you?”

“No.”

Courfeyrac gently lowered the candle to the floor and lifted himself onto the bed. Wrapped in layers of bedclothes, Combeferre gave a shy smile. Courfeyrac reached down and kissed his forehead. He wasn’t sure why.

And then, as he tried to move up, he felt something pull him back and this time, instead of a chaste peck, his lips were being touched by Combeferre’s tongue. Courfeyrac did not struggle. He kissed back fiercely and as he did, felt the tension slide out of his body.

They broke apart. By the flickering light of the candle, Courfeyrac saw Combeferre’s cheeks color. It was absolutely adorable.

“I apologize,” Combeferre said. Courfeyrac ignored him. Their mouths collided again and this time Courfeyrac took control. He kneaded his hands through Combeferre’s terribly soft hair and felt the rough stubble of an unshaven cheek against his lips. His mouth was sticky with Combeferre’s spit.

There was some fumbling on the mattress as Courfeyrac tried to straddle Combeferre and instead fell face first against the pillow. Without Combeferre to cover his mouth, he would have laughed loud enough to wake the entire household. He rocked with suppressed giggles, stopped only when a tentative hand reached under his nightshirt.

Courfeyrac gasped. It was a mistake. Murmuring apologies, Combeferre retreated into himself.

“I don’t mind. You just surprised me,” Courfeyrac said desperately.

“Go to bed,” The old paternal tone was back, the vague note of disapproval. It was the same voice Combeferre used when Bousset and Bahorel ignored their studies and oh God, Bousset and Bahorel. Chastened and suddenly depressed, Courfeyrac sunk into the mattress.

Everything was wrong. He hadn’t intended to want to kiss Combeferre but now that he had kissed Combeferre and it was almost painful to look at his perfect face, with the line between his brows that showed his worry, and his thin lips pursed in frustration and the freckle on his upper lip. And then, mixed with the surge of lust, was a deep sadness. He couldn’t separate Bousset and Bahorel from his remembrance of Combeferre’s hand on his prick. Bahorel would have had good advice. Bahorel was dead. 

“Shhhh.” Combeferre stroked Courfeyrac’s hair absently.

“I didn’t mean to upset you…”

Combeferre shushed him again.

“Go blow out the candle and stay here.”

Courfeyrac did as he was told.


	8. Xenia

June 13th, 1832

Combeferre woke up with Courfeyrac’s auburn curls tickling his chin. Almost immediately a deep feeling of unease washed over him. Last night’s follies were too repulsive to contemplate but he couldn’t help but relive his indiscretion. For one glorious minute he had had Courfeyrac’s perfectly manicured hands tangled in his hair and Courfeyrac’s sweet tongue in his mouth. He was ashamed of how much he longed to taste it again. 

But almost immediately Combeferre had known he was wrong and in the morning light, the wrongness was so clear he wanted to cry. The worst was Courfeyrac, peacefully snuggled against his chest, fundamentally did not understand the wrongness. Combeferre uncomfortably wondered if he was corrupting the younger man but immediately dismissed the notion of nonsense. There was no corruption, just _folie_ _à_ _deux_ , a madness shared between the two of them.

Of course, it was easy to excuse their actions as nothing more than a momentary madness brought on by more grief than Combeferre thought he could endure. But that was a childish explanation; if Combeferre was to be honest with himself, he had to admit that long before this dreadful revolt, long before the cholera, long before they had been forced into emotional proximity… There had been something. He wasn’t sure what _something_ was only that their friendly touches had lingered and their lighthearted teasing made his chest flutter excitedly. 

And now he lay in his childhood bed, feeling impossibly weak and angry with himself for still being so weak, Courfeyrac’s gentle breathing against his chest. The dusty smell of sandalwood drifted up from his companion’s warm body and Combeferre _wanted_ him. He hated himself for it but still he craved Courfeyrac’s lips on his own, the feel of him writhing on top of him. Combeferre was disgusted with himself.

“What’s he doing here?” Enjolras’ sleepy voice broke Combeferre’s self-loathing reverie. He turned his head slightly to face his friend, careful not to disturb Courfeyrac’s slumber.

“He couldn’t sleep.”

Enjolras stretched his good arm out and yawned.

“And yourself?”

Combeferre considered, frowning. “I did not sleep as well as I would have liked to.”

“Why is that?”

Enjolras’ clear blue eyes, always so perceptive, fixed Combeferre with a heady stare. Combeferre opened his mouth to lie, then shut it firmly and instead gestured at Courfeyrac’s sleeping form. Enjolras nodded in apparent understanding.

“I saw you both,” he said simply with no trace of disgust or judgment. Still, the words made Combeferre’s blood run cold. He clutched at the edges of the bedclothes, filled with shame.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he choked out. Enjolras shook his head slightly and reached his good arm across the space between their two beds. Trembling, Combeferre grabbed it and held Enjolras’ cold fingers tightly.

“I don’t care and neither should you. I know you’re troubled, my friend, and it pains me to see you this way. Courfeyrac loves you; what is the harm in that?” Enjolras squeezed Combeferre’s hand and gave a small smile that Combeferre almost missed.

“It matters a great deal to me. It’s one thing to love and another to…” Combeferre was, for the first time in his life, lost for words. There was no name for the feeling in his chest when he looked at Courfeyrac. It went beyond love, beyond lust, or perhaps mixed those two so well they were indistinguishable.

“He feels about you the way Grantaire felt about me.” _Felt._ Past tense. Enjolras said the words calmly but Combeferre felt his heart ache.

“Was it awful?” Combeferre asked, though he hated himself and his sick desire to know. Enjolras closed his eyes.

“It was the single most horrible thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

That was enough to make Combeferre feel ill. Enjolras’ hand went limp in his own.

“He’s in a better place now,” Combeferre said, repeating the same trite lies Courfeyrac had told him earlier. In their grief, they reverted to clichés. Like his feelings for Courfeyrac, pain also defied words. You just had to rely on tired idioms to describe it and hope you were understood.

“I ought to be with him.”

“Please stop saying things like that.”

Enjolras opened his eyes. They reflected the morning sunlight magnificently and for a moment he looked like his old self again.

“I don’t want to lie to you, my old friend. I care for you too much for that.” He pulled his hand back and Combeferre, disappointed, let his arm fall to the floor.

“What are we going to do?” Combeferre muttered dismally. “We can’t stay holed up with my parents for forever and we can’t go back to the way things were. As if we could rebuild _les amis_ and continue our work.”

“You will see where there is a need and you will fill it. I have faith in you,” Enjolras said affectionately.

“Won’t you help me?” Combeferre didn’t add that he _needed_ Enjolras there with him. He was a jumbled mess of needing lately.

“I will do whatever I can to make you happy,” Enjolras whispered. There was a gentle knock on the door and Combeferre, kicking Courfeyrac, arranged the bed so it looked less like two grown men had slept together.

Courfeyrac mumbled curses as he opened the door to reveal a maid with breakfast. The eggs shut him up and they sat around Enjolras’ bed eating and talking about nothing important. They couldn’t talk about anything important or they’d sob.

Courfeyrac dressed quickly; he was to accompany Marthe shopping. Combeferre felt something oddly like jealousy settle in the pit of his stomach as he watched Courfeyrac adjust his cravat for the tenth time in the mirror. Neither had acknowledged the previous night’s indiscretion.

To make matters worse, Enjolras proved very poor company. He would not play cards, he would not talk, and he would not read. He preferred to look out the window dully while kneading his hands in his lap. It seemed his flights of conversation were to be few and far between. Combeferre treated his friend gently, occasionally muttering a soothing compliment when Enjolras looked especially distraught.

After a slightly less awkward dinner, Combeferre convinced Marthe to play cards with him while Enjolras moped and Courfeyrac read Shelley out loud, doing his worst English accent to make everyone laugh. Enjolras smiled only occasionally and mostly fielded Madame Combeferre’s requests while staring into the fire. When they went to bed, Madame Combeferre kissed Courfeyrac good night as well. She smelt like lilac and he colored in appreciation of the gesture.

Enjolras fell asleep almost immediately and Combeferre went to his own room to read. He kept glancing at the door nervously. He knew what would happen; it was only a matter of time and the waiting killed him. Every creak of the floorboards sent his heart racing. Perhaps he was still terribly uncomfortable with the whole situation but he also felt a little reckless and a little needy.

Finally, close to midnight, Courfeyrac shyly entered. He carefully shut the door behind him and moved quickly to the bed where their mouths met.

“I was starting to think I’d scared you off,” Combeferre breathed.

“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

They fell on the bed and, after kissing until their lips were sore, fell asleep tangled amongst each other.


	9. Janus, part one

  
July 3rd, 1832

_Dear Monsieur Prouvaire,_

~~_If I may be so bold_ ~~

~~_In light of recent events_ ~~

~~_You may not know me but your son_ ~~

~~_I expect that_ ~~

Combeferre leaned back in his chair, swearing under his breath. Courfeyrac was out, begging forgiveness from his professors for weeks of missed classes and buying Enjolras a new wardrobe. They were necessary tasks, ones that should have been accomplished days ago, but Combeferre found himself wishing they had been put off for one day longer. He was terrible at these kind of common courtesies and if anyone could charm the sullen Prouvaires into releasing some information about Jehan’s health, it was Courfeyrac.

His back was also sore and the too-bright sunlight reflected uncomfortably off of his spectacles and he wanted, more than he wanted the damn letter finished, for Courfeyrac to return with his easy smile and gentle hands and neck that smelt like sandalwood. Combeferre still blushed slightly at his sudden fondness. They had begun sleeping together nearly every night; only kissing and giggling like children and falling asleep in uncomfortable, tangled positions. Enjolras cocked an eyebrow every morning when they stumbled out of Courfeyrac’s room, bleary eyed and smiling, but otherwise their rendezvous were unremarked on. It was dream-like.

Daylight meant gently prodding Enjolras and being firmly rejected, which continued to sting no matter how often it happened. Daylight meant fielding questions of his future from his mother, father, and it sometimes seemed, all of Paris. Daylight meant reading the newspaper and hearing his own personal hell, now called the June Revolt, remarked upon dryly, already half-forgotten. Daylight meant telling Marthe a funny anecdote about his friends only to realize, as they both laughed, that the story ended in death.

But at night he’d lie in bed waiting until Enjolras’ breathing became slow and peaceful, until he could tiptoe to Courfeyrac’s room and kiss and be kissed and feel, for the first time in a long time, safe.

Daylight meant writing tired, cliched phrases to mask his desperation for information about whether or not one of his dearest friends lived.

“Maybe,” said Enjolras from his perch behind Combeferre, “you could ask your mother to write to Madame Prouvaire. It might be considered less intrusive.”

“That’s probably wise,” Combeferre said appreciatively. He turned around to face Enjolras and tried to smile. Enjolras, perhaps sensing it was a half-hearted attempt, shrugged.

“I don’t think it will be any use though. Jean’s in the Alps and will be for some time, if he lives. We can’t expect he’ll be allowed back in Paris.”

Combeferre had a sudden animal urge to slap Enjolras. “No use? Who cares if he spends the rest of his life in Switzerland, as long as he’s alive? I don’t care if he never comes back to Paris and I never see him again. I want to know he’s somewhere, living and breathing and writing poetry.” The words tumbled out of him, fierce and wild. Enjolras stepped back. His brows knitted together in concentration.

“I didn’t mean—” he began but Combeferre was enraged.

“You didn’t mean and you didn’t think!”

There was an unpleasant silence, broke by the door slamming open and Courfeyrac entered carrying half a dozen brown-paper packages and whistling to himself.

“Everyone should let me choose their clothes for them. Enjolras, you are going to hate half of this but then you’ll try it on and you’ll love me more than you already do. Hullo Combeferre, you look glum.”

Enjolras turned on his heel and walked out. Courfeyrac blinked and dropped several packages on the ground.

“Why do I suspect he isn’t merely upset about my fashion choices?” It was awful how totally irreverent Courfeyrac could be while still seeming so kind. Combeferre resisted the urge to fall into his arms and instead turned to the window.

“Please help me ask my mother to write to Madame Prouvaire tonight,” Combeferre said in a shaking voice. He heard Courfeyrac leap up behind him and felt the warm touch of a hand on his wrist. Why did such a simple action make his heart beat so fast and his stomach turn inside out?

“Of course,” Courfeyrac whispered, his breath hot on Combeferre’s neck. “Whatever you and Enjolras quarreled about, I’m sure it will be resolved soon. He would never knowingly cause you any discomfort.”

Combeferre thought of the days spent trying to tempt Enjolras to talk a walk outside, to help decipher some Greek phrase, to move from his bed. He thought of the cryptic phrases Enjolras constantly employed, all pointing to his eventual self-inflicted demise.

“What are we going to do?” It was such a childish question but Combeferre had been treated like a child for so long now. His mother fussed over the length of his hair and whether or not he was getting enough to eat. Marthe’s favorite pastime, besides flirting with Courfeyrac, was teasing her older brother about his apparently dull waistcoats. He had begun to feel like a child but with the added responsibility of looking after a potentially suicidal failed revolutionary.

“We’re going to look at the lovely new cravat I bought you,” Courfeyrac purred. “Then we’re going to go to that lovely bookstore in San Michel you like so much. And then, when Enjolras has had time to simmer down, we’ll present him with some gift so thoughtful he’ll melt on the spot. Then there’s dinner, then bed.”

“No... I mean, what will we do one week from now? One year?”

Courfeyrac laughed lightly. “I haven’t the faintest idea. But let’s start with your new cravat.”

Combeferre allowed himself to be reluctantly pulled to the mess of packages. Expecting his present to be hideous at worst and extravagant at best, he was pleasantly surprised to unwrap a piece of sky-blue silk, little stars embroidered into the soft fabric. Courfeyrac kneaded his hands together nervously.

“Well?”

Combeferre let the silk run over his fingers. It was nothing like what he’d pick out for himself but strangely so like what he would have wanted. He found himself smiling.

“It’s wonderful.”

They pressed together for a chaste kiss and then broke away quickly. There was the unspoken fear they’d be discovered; too terrible to contemplate but a constant presence while they were together. Combeferre knew intellectually what he was doing was wrong and sometimes he still woke up, Courfeyrac in the crook between his shoulder and neck, drenched in sweat. He was violating all laws of nature and still it felt too good to stop.

Now he reached out for another kiss, trying to bridge the space between himself and Courfeyrac. The door was shut. The house was nearly empty. Courfeyrac acquiesced and their lips touched again, this time with more force.

Courfeyrac’s lips tasted like sugar.

“You stopped for pastries, didn’t you?” Combeferre murmured.

“I would have brought something back but it really isn’t good for you...”

Neither is this, Combeferre thought miserably. Still he delicately kissed Courfeyrac’s chin, letting his teeth scrape the delicate skin. Courfeyrac shivered in the July heat.

“Isn’t this a little far?” Courfeyrac asked, a mischievous hint in his eyes. Combeferre detached his tongue from Courfeyrac’s neck with difficulty.

“Are we paederasts?” He asked. Courfeyrac smiled easily.

“I think I liked our previous discussion more.” He pulled Combeferre closer. “Why would you ask that?”

“You said we were going far.” Courfeyrac’s neck tastes salty and warm and and is too inviting. Combeferre immediately regrets pursuing his fears when he could just kiss the skin above Courfeyrac’s collarbones. It’s damp with sweat and smells like Paris.

“I just meant this is quite unusual before eight o’clock. If anything, I prefer it. As to the question of our preferences— oh.”

Combeferre had found a nipple through the fabric of Courfeyrac’s shirt.

“Perhaps you ought to fight with Enjolras more often. We rarely see this side of you,” Courfeyrac said, gasping.

“Shut up,” Combeferre breathed. Courfeyrac obeyed.

In the past, Combeferre had struggled with the art of undressing a young lady. Dresses were composed of straps and belts and buttons more complicated than any vivisection. He opposed the corset on medical grounds and on the basis that there was nothing more humiliating than taking a pretty grisette to your rooms and then spending half an hour struggling to untangle her laces.

Undressing Courfeyrac was infinitely easier. His frock coat and waistcoat were discarded on the side of the bed and his cravat left tangled somewhere by the pillow. Combeferre purposely left his trousers on. To actually... It would be too much. It would be proof that his darkest fears had come true.

Courfeyrac seemed happy enough with the arrangement, planting sloppy kisses on Combeferre’s bare chest with enthusiasm. They somehow managed to take off all but the bare minimum of clothing. Seeing Courfeyrac lying, hair disheveled, lips red and swollen, ignited something in Combeferre’s stomach. He wanted things, unthinkable things. He ignored the feeling and continued kissing furiously.

“Don’t ruin this shirt,” Courfeyrac muttered.

Combeferre paused. “How would I ruin it?” Then, realization dawned and he felt sick. “I wouldn’t do that. Wearen’t going to do that. Are we?”

Courfeyrac propped himself up on one elbow.

“Not if you don’t want to.”

Combeferre shook his head. He suddenly felt very exposed, half-naked in the furious daylight.

“I’m sorry if I pushed you,” Courfeyrac said gently. He reached out to stroke Combeferre’s face. Combeferre hated himself for falling for the gesture and then curling miserably against Courfeyrac’s sweat-drenched body.

“You didn’t.”

Courfeyrac kissed Combeferre’s head lightly. “Are you upset about Enjolras?”

That was the exact moment Enjolras chose to barge into the room, hair flying, followed by a red-faced Marthe.

Even Courfeyrac blushed. 


	10. Janus, part two

Marthe, seeing his brother and houseguest kissing half-naked on a bed, let out a little scream before clapping her hands over her mouth. Enjolras had the piece of mind to push her inside and shut the door.

“This isn’t what it looks like!” Combeferre half-screeched, sitting up wildly. He thought he might be sick.

“Don’t insult her intelligence! This is _exactly_ what it looks like,” Courfeyrac snapped. Enjolras looked lost and after considering the scene before him with an expression of puzzled disdain, sat down next to Combeferre on the bed. It was a telling of loyalties and Combeferre was grateful for it.

“Marthe, sweetheart, you may not understand what you just witnessed,” Combeferre said, voice shaking. Marthe appeared to be stifling hysterical giggles.

“Sometimes two men... experience...” Courfeyrac began slowly.

“Oh, I know all about sodomy!” Marthe said brightly, her curls bobbing up and down. Enjolras looked a little faint and Combeferre could have sworn he heard Courfeyrac whisper, “good girl!” under his breath.

“Convent schools are boring. What did you expect me to do?”

Combeferre resisted the urge to slam his head against the bed frame. “Study?”

“You didn’t actually... perform...” Enjolras began, groping confusedly. He still still quite shaken and had one hand curled protectively around Combeferre’s wrist. Combeferre, perhaps still a little angry, did not reciprocate but was happy for the firm, comforting touch.

“I think it has a different name when girls do it,” Marthe said dreamily.

Courfeyrac nodded. “Sapphic dalliances. Quite common in young girls. I’ve read all about it.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Combeferre was trying to remain calm; he was putting in an admirable effort, he thought. It was just very trying to hear his little sister calmly discuss sodomy after walking in on him and Courfeyrac kissing in chaotic undress.

Courfeyrac shrugged, unperturbed.

“Papa always said if you spent much longer in Paris you’d end up degenerate,” Marthe said.

“I’m offended Mademoiselle! You can’t possibly think I’m a degenerate?” Courfeyrac cried dramatically. He was not taking the situation nearly as seriously as Combeferre would have preferred. Marthe looked Courfeyrac up and down; from his sweaty shirt sleeves, unbuttoned and showing a small patch of chestnut hair, to the love bite under his chin rapidly turning a sickly shade of purple.

“I think you’re both degenerates but I don’t mind and I won’t tell Papa,” Marthe said. Combeferre let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He thought he felt Enjolras’ hold on his wrist relax slightly. Even Courfeyrac seemed calmer; the color started to return to his cheeks.

“Thank you. I’m very sorry to have put you in this position.” Combeferre resisted the urge to grab Marthe into his arms like he had when they were children and she twisted her ankle.

“Don’t be,” Marthe said distractedly. She was looking at Courfeyrac’s exposed chest.

Courfeyrac, coloring under Marthe’s gaze, clapped his hands together. “Glad that’s taken care of! Marthe, my dear, may I be so bold as to beg your assistance getting through to a certain Madame Prouvaire? I’m afraid we’ve compromised your virtue terribly, and wouldn’t want your Maman blaming you for our indiscretion. Shall we meet in the salon in fifteen minutes?”

“Maman doesn’t care where I go,” Marthe said haughtily, but she gathered her skirts up and wafted easily to the bedroom door. “It’s best if we stagger our entrances. I’ll go to my room for a half hour; you go to the salon now.”

“You’re a genius, my dear!” Courfeyrac called as the door shut.

There was a moment of tense silence.

“Will you persist in flirting with my sister?” Combeferre said crossly.

“She isn’t telling anyone so I’ll say my flirting saved your hide,” Courfeyrac said. “But no matter. We’ll have no more fighting.” He looked curiously from Enjolras’ cold face to Combeferre’s frazzled one.

“We won’t,” Enjolras agreed. He bit his lower lip and looked down at the messed bedclothes.

Courfeyrac jumped up and began redressing quickly, humming as he did. He was bouncing back from the earlier shock admirably. Combeferre on the other hand, still felt vaguely nauseous.

“Does my hair look alright? I’ll never be able to set it right again; bother.” Courfeyrac sighed melodramatically at his reflection in the mirror. “The things you make me do, Combeferre.”

Combeferre felt his cheeks warm but pleased. He had the ability to fluster the effervescent Courfeyrac, if only temporarily. He could make Courfeyrac forget himself, and his hair. Was it pride he felt or just an enormous amount of affection? They had faced what seemed an insurmountable obstacle and walked away no worse for the wear, thanks to Courfeyrac’s quick thinking and his sister’s rebellious streak. Perhaps things were going to be alright.

Where he was pleasantly pink, Enjolras had begun to look a little green. Courfeyrac noticed.

“Enjolras, my friend, you look ill,” he said breezily.

“I’m fine.” The monotone was back and Combeferre, for one selfish second, wished for another burst of panic to shock Enjolras into closeness.

“I hope so. One cholera patient is quite enough for me.” Courfeyrac surveyed his appearance with a grin.

“Am I quite a handful?” Combeferre said. Was he flirting? What had happened to him in the past half hour?

Courfeyrac flashed him a toothy smile. “You take up all my time. I’ll be off to barter for Prouvaire. Children, behave yourselves.” He was incapable of even miming sternness though and before waltzing out, leaned down to kiss Combeferre on the temple and put a firm hand on Enjolras’ shoulder.

The room was emptier without him in it.

“I’m sorry. I was thoughtless and cruel. I hope Prouvaire is healthy and happy wherever he is, whether that’s Africa or Paris or Switzerland.” Enjolras tripped over his words in the apparent effort to get them out quickly.

“I’m sorry about—” Combeferre waved a hand from his own disheveled appearance to the mussed up bed. “—this.” He was suddenly very aware of his lack of dress in comparison to Enjolras’ fully buttoned coat and clean boots; boots that had not stepped outside in nearly a month.

“I’m sorry we barged in.” Enjolras turned to lean his head on Combeferre’s shoulder; Combeferre breathed in dust and something vaguely flowery.

“I hope you weren’t... disgusted,” Combeferre choked out.

Enjolras’ blue eyes suddenly became very big and he pushed himself deeper into the folds of Combeferre’s body. “You love him,” he said tonelessly.

“I don’t know.”

“He loves you.”

“I don’t know.”

Combeferre considered; it had only been a few weeks (and years of suppressed feelings) and whenever they were apart, he was drenched in anxiety. But when they were together? There had never been a more sublime happiness. Is that what love was? Was love feeling uncomfortable in bed without Courfeyrac’s body pressed against his? Was love sitting at dinner watching Courfeyrac slurp at his soup and being overcome with a desire to kiss those pink lips? Was love wondering distractedly if maybe it was worth surviving cholera and the revolt if only to wake up and watch Courfeyrac’s sleep in the morning light?

“Maybe I do love him. God Enjolras, what would I do without you? Probably muddle along and make a mess of everything.” It was impossible not to smile at the realization. _He loved Courfeyrac. It wasn’t some awful conflagration of lust; it was honest-to-God_ love _, the kind his parents shared, the kind between Joly and Musichetta._ He squeezed Enjolras warmly.

“You’d get along fine without me, as you well know. You can draw a moth from memory; you can certainly figure out that you love Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said. It was the first time he’d teased Combeferre good-naturedly since before the barricades.

“It’s harder than it looks, though I suppose he is very easy to love.”

 

 


	11. Apate

July 5th, 1832

  

Combeferre offered to read aloud to Marthe while she knitted so as to secure a moment alone. Part of him was almost happy someone else knew his secret and didn’t think him a monster. The other, more dominant part felt as though it were drowning in guilt. He had made his baby sister privy to his own moral failings (he ignored that she had probably indulged in them herself; it ruined his self-loathing tirade).

Marthe, however, was not interested in being lectured at.

“You shouldn’t apologize so much. I don’t mind at all. It adds some excitement to the house. Secret lovers and all that? Revolutionaries in hiding? It’s terribly Romantic.”

“We aren’t in hiding,” Combeferre explained sullenly. He did not argue Marthe’s classification of Courfeyrac as his lover.

“Yes but you are war-torn revolutionaries. Poor Monsieur Enjolras, he always looks so sad. Papa says after Waterloo most men from the army were like that. He said he’ll grow out of it.”

Combeferre privately doubted his father’s assessment but, pleased to be spending a bicker-free afternoon with his sister, just smiled. “I hope so.”

“I read a novel about a man like him once. He lived alone surrounded by dust and cobwebs until a beautiful, angelic woman came to bring him into the sunshine.” Marthe laughed. “I don’t think that would work for your friend, though. Was he ever attached to anyone?”

Noting Marthe’s sexless phrasing, Combeferre shrugged. “Me. Our friends. Not like Courfeyrac and I are attached. Not with anyone like _that_.”

“Oh dear, this is going to be much harder. His father’s a traditional old bat so no use asking him for help, though Papa keeps sending him overly optimistic updates.”

“What does he respond?” Combeferre replied evenly, trying not to show his worry.

“I think he wants Papa to kidnap Alex and bring him home but besides that, he just complains a lot.” Marthe colored at her involuntary use of Enjolras’ childhood nickname and smoothed out the front of her dress. She could call Enjolras _Monsieur_ and turn awestruck whenever he walked into the room but there was no hiding their familiarity, mostly forged in a childhood prank war that escalated until her favorite China doll was being dangled from the fourth floor of the Enjolras family estate.

“I feel sorry for him,” Combeferre said softly. His own father was painfully close after his illness, sometimes watching him with a heartbroken expression when Combeferre pretended to be absorbed in a book. It wasn’t hard for him to sympathize with the elder Monsieur Enjolras who faced losing his only child.

Marthe reached a manicured hand to Combeferre’s head and mussed his hair affectionately. “The point is, Alex’s father will be no help at all. If only his mother were alive! And there isn’t any angel of mercy to bring happiness into his life. We shall have to force him out of melancholy ourselves.”

“While I applaud your dedication, I’m not sure that’s possible.” Combeferre didn’t even bother to set his hair right, only hoped it wasn’t too disastrous.

“Of course it’s possible. And the first step is getting him of the house. Of course Monsieur Enjolras is depressed sitting inside all day. If he would only walk around Paris he would feel enormously happy,” Marthe said dreamily.

“It’s not like that,” Combeferre began, then stopped and frowned. How could he explain? How could he explain what it was like to walk down a familiar street and remember fondly that Joly lived there a few years back only to be struck, gasping, because Joly was dead, shot, gone forever. There were no words for passing a cafe and knowing they served the best coffee in Paris and knowing you only knew that because Grantaire showed you after a particularly grueling set of exams and Grantaire had died on the wrong side of the barricade. It was as physically painful as any illness or injury; it tugged at his chest and twisted his stomach and brought him to tears for no other reason than his mother was wearing a green dress and green was Feuilly’s favorite color.

But there were no words so he let Marthe continue her scheming.

They decided; or rather, Marthe decided and Combeferre reluctantly agreed, that it would be best to start small. The _Jardin des Plantes_ was one of Enjolras’ favorite places in Paris and a hundred years ago, when they had been happy, he had wandered it with his textbooks in a daze of flowers and light. As far as Combeferre could remember, there was so immediate connection to any dead friends. Joly, who had a vague scientific interest in botany, had perhaps strolled through the garden with Enjolras half a dozen times but not so often that the sight of a geranium would invoke Joly’s memory. It was a safe place, a quiet place.

Enjolras was not convinced. It was one of his bad days where he preferred to lie in bed half-awake, staring at the carpet with glazed eyes. Even Courfeyrac’s increasingly terrible jokes couldn’t summon the tiniest ghost of a smile.

“Come on, get up. We’re going for a walk. The weather is lovely,” Courfeyrac finally muttered with only a hint of frustration. Enjolras grunted into his pillow in response.

“It’s nearly two. It isn’t healthy to lie in bed all day. Your muscles will atrophy,” Combeferre wheedled. No grunt this time, only a nearly imperceptible shrug.

“Just the three of us. We don’t have to talk or... Or anything! Just a walk.” Courfeyrac fiddled with his sleeves and looked nervously at Combeferre, who bit his lip until it bled. It was a conversation, the kind of nonverbal exchange Combeferre once shared with the now unreadable Enjolras.

“Alex,” Combeferre said in a desperate attempt to shock Enjolras with his Christian name. “You must leave the house. You must.” His voice cracked on the final syllable and Courfeyrac clasped his hand tightly.

The promise of a sob in Combeferre’s voice riled Enjolras and he clumsily pulled himself into a sitting position. “I can’t,” he said simply.

“Your arm is nearly healed,” Combeferre pointed out. He knew perfectly well that the wounded arm was not the cause of Enjolras’ lethargy but felt to name the unnameable disease would break him entirely.

Enjolras seemed to search Combeferre’s face and then, perhaps finding what he was looking for, lay back down. “You shall enjoy yourselves more without me,” he moaned before faking sleep so deep there was no use pushing the matter.

Marthe listened to their somewhat morose description of the event over tea.

“I can’t force him up. I think he might fight me. But besides grabbing him by the ankles and pulling him out of bed, I don’t know what else to do,” Courfeyrac said.

“You did get him to sit up. And that _is_ impressive when he’s in one of those states,” Marthe said serenely. She didn’t seem surprised that her carefully constructed plan had failed.

“He only sat up because he thought I was about to cry,” Combeferre said, not adding he _had_ been about to cry. “I’m sure the only reason he hasn’t thrown himself out a window yet is because it would upset me.” Courfeyrac nodded grimly but Marthe’s faced was transformed in sudden understanding.

She set her teacup down a little loudly and clapped her hands together. “Well, that’s our answer then. He seemed certainly more composed when he believed I’d turn you both in to Papa. He needs an emergency to enthuse him with energy.”

“Marthe, darling, I hope you aren’t suggesting we manufacture a crisis because that would be very childish and immature,” Combeferre said sharply.

Marthe rolled her eyes. “Well your grown-up plans haven’t worked so onto the childish ones. Tell me, my dear brother, are you quite recovered?”

“Yes?”

“Perfect. So a large dose of a purgative would have no lasting effects on your health?”

“Besides being incredibly unpleasant, no,” Combeferre muttered. But Courfeyrac was staring at Marthe wide-eyed.

“You’re a regular genius. The only problem would be keeping your parents from becoming alarmed.”

Combeferre put the pieces together and spluttered on his tea. “No, that’s _not_ what we’re doing. Firstly, it wouldn’t even be accurate. Relapses are rare with cholera. Secondly, it would be cruel.”

“It’s not like Monsieur Enjolras knows anything about the medical likelihood of you suddenly becoming deathly ill,” Marthe said.

“And what’s crueler? A few days of worry or a lifetime of melancholy?” Courfeyrac grabbed Combeferre’s hand under the table. Combeferre pulled away.

“How do we know he won’t just revert back to his current state when I miraculously recover?” Combeferre said, frowning.

“I’d be just as lost as he is if I hadn’t nursed you back to health. Bringing someone back from the brink of death does funny things to you. Helps you appreciate the little joys in life.” Courfeyrac seemed suddenly serious. Combeferre looked at the door and wondered if he could sneak a kiss. It didn’t seem worth it.

Instead he frowned and swallowed hard.

“This is insane.”

“If he seems too upset, we’ll tell him the truth,” Marthe said gently.

“Of course he’ll be upset. How many people survive cholera twice?"

Courfeyrac shrugged. “It’s not like he reads the statistics in the newspaper.”

“How can you be so callous?” Combeferre disliked snapping but he was still smarting from his earlier interactions with Enjolras. 

“If it works, it won’t be callous,” Courfeyrac said. Combeferre wanted to accuse him of taking the situation too lightly but found no trace of mirth in Courfeyrac’s face.

“You must promise me that we’ll stop if he appears too upset,” Combeferre began, only to be shushed by an impatient Marthe.

“Of course. We want Monsieur Enjolras to be his old self again just as much as you do. Now, the real question is how we’ll hide you from Papa and Maman.”

They came up with half a dozen plans, each more impractical than the next until, at dinner, in a seemingly fateful coincidence, Madame Combeferre received a hasty letter from her eldest daughter announcing her expected child had been born nearly a month early and was quite ill. Combeferre felt guilty for feeling a little glad of the distraction and said a silent prayer that baby would be well. He wasn’t sure when he had begun praying, only that asking the God he didn’t believe in for help calmed him. The timing of the little domestic drama was so fortuitous, it was hard to believe there were no cosmic powers at play.

Of course this meant that Monsieur and Madame Combeferre were to leave for Reims in the night. Marthe was reluctantly dragged along both as help and because Madame Combeferre didn’t like the way she looked at Courfeyrac. The house was a flurry of activity until midnight when the doors slammed shut, the coach pulled away, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac talked in the library until dawn.


	12. Philotes

July 6th, 1832

 

“If the slightest thing goes wrong, fetch me.”

Courfeyrac’s hand massaged Combeferre’s upper thigh. Perhaps he knew how ridiculously exciting such a simple affectionate motion was. Regardless, Combeferre found it hard to concentrate on their plan.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve measured the dosage and if I’m still quite ill when you get back, just administer the tannic acid. We’ve been through worse,” Combeferre said. Courfeyrac smiled, the sort of smile where the edges of his eyes crinkled and his teeth showed.

“I wish you didn’t have to be ill at all. You’ve been ill far too much. It’s disconcerting. I hardly know if I want to kiss you or check your pulse,” Courfeyrac purred, his free hand pulling a few stray hairs from Combeferre’s face.

“It was your idea,” Combeferre replied because sounding annoyed was better than letting the well of affection within him burst open.

Courfeyrac was not affected. “I suppose it _was_ my idea. But I still think it’s awfully grand of you to undertake this. I’ll have to make it up to you somehow.” He pursed his lips in mock contemplation and something about his red, red mouth broke something in Combeferre’s chest open.

“May I claim my reward early?”

Courfeyrac blinked.

“Are you quite sure?”

But Combeferre wasn’t sure. He was starting to understand he’d never shut out the worry entirely, that the anxiety would always hover somewhere under his affections. It was just that at that moment, when Courfeyrac had licked his lips and smiled so sweetly, that the quivering fear in his stomach seemed less important. It would return, Combeferre had no doubt it would return with a vengeance, but shouldn’t he take this sweet opportunity? He felt alive and confident and desperately aroused.

“If it’s alright with you...” Combeferre managed that much before plunging at Courfeyrac’s mouth, desperate to taste every inch of him. His limbs seemed too loose, too uncontrollable; before he surfaced for air, he found his hands undoing the fastenings of Courfeyrac’s trousers.

“I love you. Is that a cliche? I don’t care. I love you,” Courfeyrac choked out.

“I don’t care either. I love you.”

Had he said that? Perhaps he had. Their words and mutterings had become indistinguishable. Combeferre wasn’t sure anymore who moaned and who grabbed who, only that the little bed was annoyingly small and somehow Courfeyrac looked even more beautiful without clothes.

At one point Courfeyrac, in a surge of enthusiasm had reached behind Combeferre with eager fingers, only to be gently slapped away. “Later,” Combeferre whispered and Courfeyrac only laughed beautiful and light. Combeferre could have given in happily then but obeyed the nervous whispering in his head. _Later. You aren’t ready._

It was odd how the same motions that bored him alone in the bath became exciting when it was Courfeyrac’s manicured hands. Combeferre wasn’t quite sure what they were even doing except that his fingertips kept curling and the noise in his head was silenced. All he could hear was his own wild breathing.

And then, quickly, it was over and though the nervousness ebbed on the edges of his consciousness as Courfeyrac licked Combeferre’s seed off his chest, it was easier to shut up now.

The minutes passed quickly but neither seemed ready to move. Courfeyrac has closed his eyes to the world, his nose stuck to Combeferre’s matted hair.

“I think I started to love you last year. It was nearly Christmas and before we were all to go home, you invited us to your apartment,” Courfeyrac began, his usually calm voice shaking slightly. Combeferre pulled his closer. “Bahorel was trying to make a cake and failing horribly and even Enjolras was tipsy. I remember I saw you amidst the smoke and haze and you just looked so peaceful. Prouvaire was leaning against your shoulder. I don’t know why, but I think that was the start.”

Combeferre kissed Courfeyrac’s temple. “I remember. I don’t know if I knew until this whole mess. I was scared.” Courfeyrac’s laugh was muffled against Combeferre’s bare chest.

“I never would have thought you were scared of anything. You always look so steady. Peaceful, like I said. Have you never been with a man before?”

Combeferre slowly shook his head.

“I’m honored then. There’s no harm in it. Your darling Fourier could have told you that."

“It’s one thing to read about these things and another to experience it. I always thought… this was something for degenerates or bored young schoolboys. Good for others but not for me. But it isn’t passing, is it? I’m not going to wake up one day and find myself ready to… to find some mistress and leave you high and dry?” Combeferre hoped the crack in his voice wasn’t audible.

“You’d better not. And no, none of the writers have this sort of thing right at all. Even the Greeks messed it all up. How can one love another if he is a slave? Antinous was not Hadrian’s equal, as you are mine,” Courfeyrac breathed into Combeferre’s neck, tickling and exciting him all over again.

Combeferre shifted his weight onto his back and sighed. “Antinous never would have nursed Hadrian back from cholera. I like us much better.”

It wasn’t a resolution, but it was as close as he was going to get.

“This is a stupid idea. Let’s pick a new plan or even better, just stay in bed all day,” Courfeyrac whined.

“I agree. It’s entirely stupid but we’ve already committed to it.”

Courfeyrac propped himself up on his elbows.

“Are you scared?”

Combeferre craned his neck up for a kiss. “I’m terrified. I’m also terrified of loving you and of opening the newspaper every morning.”

“Let me stay with you while you take it.” Courfeyrac refused to use the medical term. It was poison. It was sitting innocently on the dresser, a satchel of white powder next to a tumbler of water. Combeferre could not look away.

“You have to go before I begin to be ill or Enjolras will just place the bulk of the nursing in your hands,” Combeferre said. Courfeyrac pouted.

“I should never have suggested this.”

It was one smooth motion for Combeferre to tear himself away from Courfeyrac’s warmth and leap across the bed to the dresser. It felt odd to measure the powder like he was mixing any number of elixirs at the Necker except that now he was standing naked in his governess’s old bedroom and this potion was not intended to cure. Far from it.

“I’m very fond of you. I’m actually quite in love with you,” Courfeyrac choked out. He stood behind Combeferre, one hand clapped on his shoulder. Combeferre wanted to reply that the grand exclamations were over and done with, that they had said the incantations earlier; the magic was gone. Instead he downed the new mixture in one gulp. Courfeyrac’s hand tensed.

It was sweet. It could have been sugar water meant to charm him into eating his dinner. The liquid glided effortlessly down his esophagus. It was almost too easy.

“It reacts quickly. You should go.” Combeferre licked the taste off his lips before kissing Courfeyrac gently.

It was done.


	13. Iaso

Daylight danced on the inside of his eyelid and Enjolras pressed his face against the warmth of his pillow until darkness returned again. The damage had been done— he was awake, and, judging by the palpitations in his atrophied legs, would be for some time. Unfortunate.

Perhaps today he would bathe, would comb the grease from his hair, would struggle with the buttons on his waistcoat and would not give up. It seemed like a terrible waste of strength.

Try as he might, consciousness returned to him and with it, the faint smell of gunpowder that he knew was imaginary, yet always lingered, even in the pristine coverlet. There were voices too, always the same incoherent shouts and a low sob he couldn’t place. They danced on the edge of his hearing, just low enough not to disturb the bustle of the city just outside the window, yet loud enough to persistently distract from all else. It was constant. It was comforting. He lay still and revelled in it, letting himself fall into the familiar chaos of battle.

It was a few moments before he registered the feel of hands— real, warm human hands— pushing him gently. He rolled towards the touch and tentatively opened his eyes.

It was Combeferre, white as a sheet, vaguely blue around the jaw, shaking softly and mouthing something incomprehensible. Enjolras closed his eyes again. A cruel dream. His usual visions were warm and regular. This was new. He felt his stomach curl.

Enjolras opened his eyes again, and the figure remained.

“Enjolras. Enjolras.” It spoke with Combeferre’s voice, louder than any hallucination.

“You are unwell.” _Contradict me, Combeferre. Disappear in a burst of smoke like a cheap parlour trick. Assuage me so I can go back to sleep._

“Yes.”

The shouting stopped, if only for a second, as shock flooded, cold, through his veins. Enjolras felt it like a knife and, frightened, reached out his hands to Combeferre like a child. _Assuage me. Let me sleep._

Combeferre’s hands were moist and oddly chilled and Enjolras had a sudden urge to push him away. Before he could voice it, Combeferre had crawled onto the bed and pressed his head against Enjolras’s shoulder. Enjolras shuddered and knew Combeferre had felt it. He hated himself. He wanted to push Combeferre onto the ground and keep the bed warm and sweet.

Instead, Enjolras took in a sharp breath that rattled his chest and pulled Combeferre closer until their foreheads were touching. Combeferre shivered and Enjolras sacrificed a portion of the bedclothes to him. The shivering did not cease.

“I just woke up like this,” Combeferre muttered, the words tumbling out of him in one breath. Enjolras struggled to find his own voice.

“It’s the weather. Too much rain. You’ll be fine by supper. Find Courfeyrac. He’ll go get a doctor. Or send someone for the doctor. You should send for a doctor anyway. I’m sure it’s the rain, I’m sure.” It was all nonsense; there had been a bright and persistent sunshine for the past few weeks that even Enjolras hadn’t failed to notice.

“It feels the same.”

The screams returned, louder than ever before, and now the voices were recognizable— it was Feuilly who cried out in pain, Joly who sobbed, Bahorel who screamed in a frenzy of blood. And somewhere, behind it all, Bossuet’s ragged breathing was loudest of all.  

Combeferre was retching now, and Enjolras was vaguely aware that he was searching for a basin and finally, with disinterest, was wrenching a set of drawers out of the bedside table and holding Combeferre’s head still.

There was red.

It was speckled on the pillow and Enjolras’s hands and Combeferre had fallen back against the pillows in seeming pain and there screaming was so loud Enjolras could hardly hear his whimper and it seemed the red was everywhere.

“Please fetch a doctor,” Enjolras cried but Combeferre couldn’t move and Enjolras, desperate and still wishing he could go back to sleep, held him and sobbed.

“Where is Courfeyrac? Where are your parents? What is wrong? Tell me what’s wrong with you.”

Another spray of blood and bile, red and yellow, staining the pristine sheets and turning Combeferre’s mouth into a bizarre palette, and Enjolras cried because he wanted to sleep and he wanted Combeferre to stop writhing, to wipe his face and smile again.

Time passed slowly and Enjolras heard every imaginary gasp of pain and felt, under his arm, every shudder of Combeferre’s. He began to press his mouth to Combeferre’s neck in the hope he’d breath in some clinging miasma of disease and they’d die together, but he only felt the sluggish rush of Combeferre’s blood in his veins. There was vomit that Enjolras couldn’t wipe away, that fell from Combeferre’s mouth freely and wet the bed sheets and smelled like death even when it wasn’t red.  

And then, there were footsteps in the hall and Enjolras couldn’t find a way to make his voice cry for help, but Courfeyrac was in the room, good, steady Courfeyrac with his usual caramel skin, not red, not red.

Combeferre was led away under a cacophony of gunfire and Enjolras, finally alone, fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. Hopefully updates will be semi-regular from now on. :)

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The title is from Auden's "Musée des Beaux Arts".  
> 2\. Many thanks to L.H. Young, who's 1832 "An Account of the Rise and Progress of the Indian of Spasmodic Cholera" was invaluable, if so medically inaccurate that it was painful to read.  
> 3\. Miasmas aren't real but, if you're interested, Bousset and Combeferre got sick from eating at a skeezy restaurant. They will continue to blame miasmas.  
> 4\. The moral of this particular story is that we should all be grateful to be living in the 21th century. Unfortunately, people still die from cholera in the developing world and if this fic makes you sad/grosses you out/makes you have feels, you should donate to a charity like Save The Children, which helps to reduce deaths. Cholera is super curable now! Yay!  
> 5\. No Boussets were harmed in the writing of this fanfiction.  
> 6\. Or Combeferres.  
> 


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